


Echoing

by Beleriandings



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Existential Horror, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26942176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: Ianto wakes up at his desk in the archives, with no memory of how he got there or what happened before, and no way to contact Jack or Gwen. Turns out, all of that's the least of his problems.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Past Lisa Hallett/Ianto Jones - Relationship
Comments: 32
Kudos: 67
Collections: Torchwood Fan Fests: Halloween Fest 2020





	Echoing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myotishia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myotishia/gifts).



Ianto woke with a start, cricking his neck uncomfortably as he jerked up from where he’d been lying with his face pillowed on his arms across his desk. It took a moment or two for him to regain his hold on reality, shaking off the last traces of the dream he’d been having with some impatience. He frowned as the last of the sense of it cleared; it hadn’t been a very pleasant dream, but then again, with the life he lived, they rarely ever were.

But it wasn’t as though he was unused to nightmares; he breathed out, counting to ten as reality settled back around him again, solid and comforting, the last of the dream already fading into the background of his awareness.

Ianto realised he must have fallen asleep in the archives, his face pressed to the file on the desk in front of him. Not that it was the first time this had happened; he felt a wave of déjà vu pass briefly over him. He made a face, smoothing out a small wrinkle in the old carbon paper he’d apparently taken an impromptu nap on. He sighed. Gwen and Jack were always saying he should get more sleep, they just had very different approaches to getting him to actually do it. Regardless, they were probably right, he thought.

It was _hard_ with just three of them, was the thing, stretched too thin and hardly having time to pause for breath.

Time. That was another question; how long had he been asleep? Here, deep underground, it was almost impossible to tell how much time had passed. Ianto checked his watch; thirteen minutes past one.

Not that that told him very much; he realised as he checked the time that he didn’t actually know when he’d fallen asleep, so it wasn’t particularly useful information. He was rather perturbed to realise that he didn’t even know if that was thirteen minutes past one in the morning or the afternoon: based on past experience of the time he spent at this desk, it could just as easily be either.

Ianto thought back and frowned, as he realised he couldn’t actually remember coming down here. Or rather he could, but only in general terms. Not the specifics, nor what he’d been doing before that.

It bothered him, not remembering things; always had.

He filed away the papers – a copy of a report on an alien hitchhiker that lived in human bodies that Torchwood had encountered back in the nineteen sixties, not that he could remember why he’d been reading that – and got up from the desk, touching the button on his earpiece to start the comms. But nothing happened. He frowned, trying again; still nothing. He cast around for his phone, checking his pockets and the surrounding desk, but it wasn’t there.

With a deepening frown, he headed for the door to find the others.

As soon as he left the room though, Ianto realised something was wrong. Instead of the familiar lights of the corridor though, there was darkness except for the red emergency lights lining the corridor on both sides. And even they ended a few metres up ahead, as some great dark mass filled the far end of the passageway.

Ianto squinted in the low light, stepping towards it, not quite understanding what he was seeing. It looked for all the world as though the corridor had collapsed, debris filling in the way. He gritted his teeth, claustrophobia crawling up his spine; this wasn’t something he’d be able to clear himself, which meant he was trapped down here until–

But at the moment he blinked. As soon as he did, the rubble filling up the corridor was gone, and the lights were on again, and everything seemed completely normal. Ianto looked around, cautious as he stepped forward; perhaps this was some kind of illusion? But as he walked he didn’t encounter any sort of resistance, didn’t come up against any broken concrete or twisted metal.

Ianto made his way to the end of the corridor, unlocking the door and passing through to the stairs. He felt odd, in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He had to find Jack, he thought, the idea coming to him apparently from nothing. The two of them were supposed to go… somewhere. To do something. He couldn’t remember, and it was _really_ starting to bother him now. Still, finding Jack – or Gwen if she was here, but he had the idea that she wasn’t in the Hub right now – seemed like a good idea anyway. Jack would know what to do, Jack would help him fix whatever this was.

Forcing down his nerves and the creeping sense of strangeness, Ianto concentrated on walking up the stairs, putting one foot in front of the other. It was a long walk, but it felt safer than taking the lift, for some reason; some irrational fear in his heart told him that if he got into the lift and let the doors close behind him, he’d never get out alive.

Which was stupid, he knew. But that didn’t stop him from taking the stairs; sometimes, the secret to staying alive as a Torchwood agent was simply trusting your instincts.

Sometimes it was the complete opposite, but Ianto didn’t feel like dwelling on that right now.

After a while, he realised he’d lost track of how many floors he’d climbed; it seemed like too many. He looked at the floor number on the wall, and frowned when he saw he was only at sublevel three; he’d started out at his desk in archive sublevel six. Hadn’t he? Had he really only climbed three floors? He’d been so deeply lost in thought that he hadn’t been paying attention to the floor numbers, and apart from those each flight of stairs looked exactly the same. Ianto leaned against the wall – and really he shouldn’t be this out of breath after only three flights – and checked his watch again; eighteen minutes past one.

He frowned, unease creeping over him again; he was sure more than five minutes had passed since he’d woken up. This was a route he’d taken many, many times before, after all; he knew how long it took to climb these stairs. So what was going on?

At that moment, Ianto heard a sound above him. His head darted up, his reflexes fast with nervousness, palms beginning to sweat with fear that he didn’t quite understand.

Until the next moment, when he did.

Because there, coming down the stairs from above him, was a ghost.

Or at least that was the first thought that came to his mind as Suzie Costello came down the stairs above, passing around the corner towards him.

A moment later Ianto’s rational mind kicked in; no, not a ghost – probably – but no less dangerous for it. Suzie had come back before, maybe she’d found another way. And that meant danger, he was sure; though Suzie had once been his coworker, she’d already come back once and nearly killed Gwen. God knew what she’d do this time, the revenge she’d surely want. That meant he had to warn Jack and Gwen, but when she passed him on the stairs she surely wouldn’t let him get away to do that. Not that he had anywhere to go; he pressed his back into the corner where the stairs turned, hand on his gun as she stepped onto his flight of stairs. Bracing for a fight, as Suzie turned to fix him in her line of vision. He wasn’t afraid, he told himself; hadn’t he made his peace long ago with the fact that if he had to die, protecting Jack and Gwen and the world would be the way he’d like to do it?

But to Ianto’s surprise, as Suzie’s gaze swept over him, as she walked down the stairs towards him, she didn’t seem to react to his presence; it was like she couldn’t see him at all. Indeed, her attention was fixed on her PDA screen as she walked down the stairs, and she completely ignored him as she passed by the place where he was standing, back pressed into the corner.

Ianto blinked in confusion as she passed him, carrying on down the stairs as though she was completely alone, before disappearing around the bend a moment later.

He shuddered, standing in place for a long moment as his mind scrambled to understand what he’d just seen. Had he time-traveled? Or somehow slipped into a parallel universe? Or had he really and truly just seen a ghost?

Ianto had no idea. It was too hard to think, too hard to remember; he had to find Jack or Gwen, he thought, shaking himself. They’d know, they’d be able to explain this, or at least to tell him that he wasn’t just losing his grip on reality.

Well, hopefully anyway.

As he’d been thinking all this, he’d carried on up the stairs to the next flight. But before he could turn the corner his train of thought was interrupted by another sound from above, and he peered out hopefully, over the railing.

And froze as he saw Suzie again, coming down the stairs above him. Ianto let out a quiet sound of confusion, looking up then down, then back up again. He was so sure she’d gone down the stairs, and there was no other way up; he’d have heard the lift, and while she could have gone the long way through the archives, she wouldn’t have been able to make it back so quickly, he was almost certain. Besides, he’d thought no one but him knew those ways… the idea that Suzie did too was a little troubling, to say the least.

The fact that Suzie was definitely supposed to be dead was also troubling, he thought, especially since he’d consigned her to the morgue himself. Yet, apparently, here she was.

Ianto could only push himself back against the wall again as she passed, a little ashamed at how afraid this was making him. He hated not knowing, not understanding. He stared as she passed him by, exactly the same as before, ignoring him entirely.

As soon as he felt able to breathe normally again he peered down over the railing, expecting to see her on the level below, or turning into the archives.

But, he soon saw, there was nobody there.

He turned to look at the number on the wall, and saw that he was still on sublevel three.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until phosphenes burst glowing blue-white in the black of his vision, taking deep, steadying breaths before starting up the stairs once more.

On the next level it happened again. And the next. And the next. But after he’d seen five versions of Suzie pass him by, he realised with great relief that he’d finally reached sublevel two. He leaned against the wall, the side of his head resting against the cool concrete, and tried his comms again; still nothing, not that he’d been expecting anything else.

Some kind of time loop then, Ianto thought. That was the only explanation he could think of, not that he knew what to do with it. This was much more Jack’s area. He wished Jack was here with all his heart, and not only to ask him about time loops; all Ianto wanted was for Jack to take him in his arms and to feel the reassuring warmth and solidity of him, to inhale the familiar smell of Jack and ground himself in the moment.

But Jack wasn’t here right now. Ianto forced himself to stand up on his own, to stop leaning against the wall and hurry on up the stairs while he still could. He’d feel better in the main space of the Hub, he knew.

Finally, to his immense relief, he reached the door, unlocking it and pushing it open almost gingerly. As it opened a crack, once again Ianto had the impression of darkness on the other side, something that smelled like wet plaster and brick dust, as well as a gust of chilly, damp wind.

But before he could get a better hold on his first impression it was gone, and he was in the main space of the Hub, stepping cautiously inside and closing the door to the archives behind him. He looked around him, cautious. “Jack?” he called. “Gwen? ...Anyone here?” but no one answered; he seemed to be quite alone.

Again, Ianto wracked his brain to try to remember what had happened in his immediate past. But though there was a flicker of something, it felt more like the lingering pall of vague feeling after a dream, all overhanging emotion rather than anything helpful.

And even that sense wasn’t very reassuring; a mix of fear and regret and grief, and a deep sense of being alone. Light, cold and unforgiving, bright enough to hurt his eyes. And perhaps Jack had been with him, he thought. Yet as soon as that idea came to him, another one came with it; something was trying to take Jack from him. And as much as Jack had tried to hold on, he’d been slipping, slipping, until...

...Until what? He didn’t know. Not for the first time, Ianto wondered if he’d been retconned. But it didn’t feel like it. For a start, he should be able to feel the after-effects of the sedative, like a mild hangover. And why retcon him and leave him asleep on the desk? Unless he’d done it himself. But if he had, he got the feeling he’d have been smarter about it, left himself a note at least. He’d like to think he would; he knew himself well enough to know how missing pieces of memory bothered him.

Regardless, he supposed there was no way of knowing based on the information he had now. He needed to find out more.

He stepped into the main space, peering upwards at the ceiling briefly.

And when he looked back at the Hub, it looked different.

It was lit up with Christmas lights, was the first thing Ianto noticed. That was odd, he thought, since it was months until Christmas. The old TV was on, and Ianto squinted at it, recognising the BBC news coverage. The camera seemed to be panning across the ice-skating rink at Somerset House in London; he felt a nostalgic pang as he remembered the time he and Lisa had gone there together, on Christmas Eve of 2006. It was overpriced and it had started raining halfway through, and Ianto had fallen over on his ice skates in a slushy pool of water, but they’d got back to Lisa’s flat and taken off their wet clothes and put them on the radiators to dry, and the night had got a lot more fun from that point on. (The next day, of course, they’d both been called in to work to deal with the Sycorax invasion crisis, but that sort of thing was only to be expected when you worked for Torchwood.)

He shook his head to rid himself of the memory, looking around the Hub.

It was only then that he noticed the man sitting on top of the barrel in front of the armory, so still was he.

Then, a moment later, the gun in his hands.

Then, the bodies on the floor, blood trickling down through the grating and into the tide pool in dark rivulets.

Ianto’s eyes widened; he hadn’t been expecting it, was the thing. The violence of it was at odds with the almost peaceful silence, as the man sat still, contemplative. Ianto stared at his face; he thought he recognised his features from some archival record or other, but just as he was on the point of putting a name to the face, Jack ran into the Hub.

“Hey!” said Jack, taking off his coat, “when you joked about the millennium bug, I didn’t think it was gonna have eighteen legs stacked with poison.” Jack laughed softly, hanging up his coat and coming around the corner; he didn’t look very much different from the Jack that Ianto knew, but for the tan waistcoat he hadn’t worn for a while. Ianto felt a stab of unexpected emotion as the thought popped into his mind that Jack had been dressed almost exactly like this on the night they’d caught Myfanwy together.

But despite that, there were subtle differences. Mostly in the way he held himself, even the tone of his voice. Enough for Ianto to know instinctively that this was not quite _his_ Jack; not yet, anyway.

“Anyone home?” Jack yelled, echoing under the Hub’s high ceiling.

Ianto stepped forward. “Jack” he said, half expecting now to be ignored. “Yes, I’m here. Jack, what’s–”

But he broke off, as sure enough Jack completely ignored him. It was as though he hadn’t heard Ianto speak at all, as he bounded into the main space.

At that same moment, Ianto felt a wash of preemptive horror as he remembered the bodies lying all around. If these were people Jack knew, loved even, then–

“You know, you’re supposed to party like it’s–” Jack broke off, stopping in his tracks, kneeling down beside the nearest body and drawing his gun, immediately on guard. He went to the next body, checking her pulse. Ianto wanted to go to him, but he knew that wasn’t possible; somehow, he must have been sent back in time, and even if this Jack could see him, he didn’t know him yet.

So instead, as much as it broke his heart Ianto had to content himself with standing by and watching. Jack looked as though he’d been punched in the stomach as he caught site of the man sitting alone. Ianto watched tears sparkle in Jack’s eyes as he stared and stared.

“Alex?”

The man looked up. “Jack!” he smiled, bitterly and sadly. “Just in time!”

“Alex… wh-what happened? Who did this?”

Alex looked away from him. “Me.”

“...What?” Jack got to his feet almost unsteadily. “Why?!?”

“We got it wrong, Jack.” Alex opened his hand, and Ianto saw something silver glint there. “We thought we could control the stuff we found. And what’s it brought us? So much death.”

Jack aimed his gun at Alex. “What happened to them?”

Alex looked up at Jack, and the look in his eyes made Ianto want to tackle him to the ground, to punch his face bloody. But he resisted; after all, Ianto wasn’t part of this time.

But you wouldn’t know it, with how vivid this was. It almost felt more real than what he’d left behind, the emotion of both the two men in the room rolling off and swallowing him up like a riptide.

“It’s good you’re here” said Alex to Jack. “Always did have great timing. This place… it’s yours. Torchwood Three.”

And _oh_ … Ianto suddenly understood a lot more about Jack, all at once.

Alex continued, “my gift to you, Jack, for a century of service as field operative. Give this place a purpose, before it’s too late. Please.”

Jack swallowed, lowering his gun, the hope on his face as heartbreaking as the catch in his voice. “Alex, listen” said Jack. “It’s… gonna be okay.” It sounded like even he didn’t believe himself. And that set off something in Ianto’s memory, something recent, but before he could think more about it, Alex was speaking again.

“No. It’s not. It’s really not. I looked inside.” He clasped his hand over what was in his palm.

“It showed me what’s coming” said Alex. “They were mercy killings. It was the kindest thing I could do.” He looked over at Jack, who had knelt down again, desperate, at the side of one of his murdered friends. “So none of us see the storm. I’m sorry I can’t do the same for you.”

Jack looked up at that, and once again, something in his face, the utterly broken look to him, nudged something in Ianto’s memory. But it was gone a moment later.

“Twenty-first century, Jack” said Alex, looking at the TV where fireworks were bursting over London, blazing bright across the screen. “Everything’s gonna change. And we’re not ready.”

“ _Alex!_ ” Jack shouted, springing to his feet. But it was too late; Alex had drawn his gun and brought it to the side of his own head, the sound of the gunshot echoing through the Hub and making Ianto flinch. His last sight was Jack staring in wide-eyed shock, blood splashed across his face, before everything went black.

But it didn’t stay black; Ianto didn’t even have time to panic about losing his vision, before the Hub was empty again, except for Alex sitting on the barrel. Ianto was too shocked to do anything, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing as he heard Jack’s voice again, coming from the door. “Hey! When you joked about the millennium bug, I didn’t think it was gonna have eighteen legs stacked with poison!”

And with that, Ianto realised what would happen next.

The scene looped twice more, before the Hub returned to normal, to his own time. By that time, Ianto was half doubled over, head in his hands as Jack’s blood-splattered face shone in his mind’s eye, the sound of Alex’s gunshot ringing in his ears as he stumbled back against the window of the armory. But then the world seemed to shift, the light changing.

Ianto was halfway to breathing a sigh of relief, when he realised just where – and when – he was.

The lights were blue and warning red: lockdown. (And there was something about that, another catch in his head, but... _but_ he couldn’t think of that now because his breath was catching in his throat at the scene before him.) Across the tide pool was a figure limned in shining metal, reflecting back the light in bloody shades.

Lisa.

In front of her, facing away, was himself.

Ianto stared, listening to her voice – so familiar, so much loved – ring across the Hub, terribly metallic and wrong, inhuman.

“I must start again” Lisa was saying. “Upgrade properly.”

His past self stepped forward, angry in his desperation. “For God’s sake, have you heard yourself?” His voice softened. At the time, Ianto remembered, he’d still been hanging onto his last shreds of hope and denial like his life depended on it. In many ways it had. “Lisa, please. I brought you here to heal you. So we could be together.” And it always had been a slim chance, hadn’t it? But it had been all he’d had to cling to, after his whole life had burned around him. Despite everything, Ianto’s heart went out to the man standing before him, the hurting, broken young man he’d been.

Lisa turned to look at him; the past him, that was, _Lisa’s_ Ianto. “Together” she said. “Yes. Transplant my brain into your body.” And _oh_ , he remembered how his heart had dropped like a stone, hearing that; he felt it again now, nearly cracking his resolve and setting him off sobbing along with his past self.

“The two of us, together. Fused” said Lisa. “We will be one complete person. ...Isn’t that what love is?”

“No” Ianto whispered, at the same time as his past self. He knew even better now, better than ever before, that love wasn’t knowing everything of a person, wasn’t being with them at every moment and sharing their every thought. Love was the push and pull of it, it was being the counterweight to a someone’s downward spiral when they needed it, it was telling and being told things you needed to hear but might not want to. It was give and take, holding and letting yourself be held close in your turn, and not being afraid of leaning on someone else once in a while. And to lean on someone, they had to be leaning back the opposite way.

He knew this now, better than ever. He’d started to understand with Lisa, but she’d been taken from him far too soon. He’d learned more since, with Jack. Maybe he’d learn even more in the future, he thought, if he ever got out of this nightmare.

At that thought a blue flash came across his mind, sudden and cold and blinding. At the same moment, in the vision – if that was what it was – before him, Lisa’s voice turned to steel. “Then we are not compatible.”

And she seized his past self by the throat, throwing him across the Hub to the concrete with inhuman strength. Ianto barely had time to scream before he was jolted out of the scene.

And there was Lisa again, talking to his past self. “I must start again. Upgrade properly.”

Ianto sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and wishing for it to be over as the scene looped; this one seemed to go on for an age, and he’d lost count of how many times he’d watched it play out before he finally found himself stumbling back into the regular light of the Hub.

He blinked, realising he’d backed up against the sofa. Which was just as well because his knees gave out, plopping him down on the threadbare upholstery, his face in his hands as he sobbed. He was tired of this, was the thing; he was _tired_ and he wanted to go to bed and he wanted Jack to hold him and not let go. He wanted to remember, to understand, but more than that he wanted to leave, to sleep.

He wondered if this was how it felt to be a ghost. As he had that thought something else tugged in his mind, and this time he actually did remember it. Something Jack had said a while ago. Ghosts, in as much as they existed at all, were just echoes of moments of time, lingering emotion pressing itself into the fabric of reality. Ianto sat up, mind racing suddenly; maybe that was what this was? Maybe what Ianto was seeing were ghosts, plain and simple; no time travel, just echoes.

It made sense, he thought. It explained the looping too, if he thought about it in terms of resonant echoes. Rattling around in this place so heavy with old emotions, people with stories to tell and significant moments in time.

It didn’t explain everything – it didn’t explain his missing memories for one, or where Jack or Gwen were, and it certainly didn’t explain what was actually causing this – but it was a start. That, at least, was slightly reassuring.

Ghosts, Ianto thought, probably couldn’t harm him either. They were just leftovers, imprints that couldn’t touch the living. He’d be okay. He’d get through this, and get back to Jack and Gwen.

He opened his eyes, scrubbing the tears off his cheeks with his palms.

And as he sat up on the sofa, he became aware of a sound close by, just beside him. With some trepidation, he turned his head to the left.

...And saw Owen beside him on the sofa, sitting there bolt upright and staring straight ahead. Ianto glanced over him; his hand was bandaged, skin waxy-pale as it had been near the end, after Owen’s first death. Owen was staring straight ahead with almost glassy eyes.

Not that that threw Ianto much; Owen had often done this after he’d died. Though his body hadn’t needed rest, the human mind was never meant to run full time, so Owen had sometimes just let himself drift like this. This had caused Gwen no end of panic the first time she’d walked in on Owen staring blank-eyed across the Hub, thinking he’d really died this time, and Ianto didn’t blame her one bit for that fear. But in a few days they’d all got used to it, and Owen’s not-sleeping had become a regular feature of life in the Hub for a while.

Except now, it was different. Where usually he’d sit perfectly still, this time he was rocking backwards and forwards slightly, face twisting up. Ianto wondered, with a pang, whether Owen was having a nightmare; could he even have nightmares, if he didn’t technically sleep? A small noise escaped Owen’s mouth, a little sound of distress.

And then, with a jolt, Ianto realised what was happening.

Owen was crying. He was crying in the the only way he could: without tears, without deep, wrenching sobs or his face flushing or his breath hitching, because he had no blood to heat his skin or breath for sobbing or tears to fall. But apparently there was an instinct that wouldn’t let go even after death, to cry when things became overwhelming.

Ianto felt Owen’s pain and dread stab through him too at the sight, like a bullet through his own heart. He almost couldn’t take it, watching Owen in such clear pain like this, but he didn’t know what to say or do; after all, how do you comfort a ghost?

Still, he had to do something, he knew. Slowly, he reached out for Owen’s hand on the sofa cushion, placing his own hand over it and giving it a soft squeeze.

And to his very great surprise, Owen turned his head to look at him, surprised out of his not-crying as his eyes roamed across Ianto.  
Owen could _see_ him, he realised, as quick as that. The thought sent a thrill of fear up his spine, deep and instinctual and without logic.

Owen was frowning. “Ianto?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Ianto opened his mouth, all words deserting him; he didn’t know where to start. He didn’t even know where _here_ was, really. He opened his mouth and closed it stupidly, as Owen scrutinised his face. “I...”

And then, Owen’s face changed. “Oh, God” he said, voice hollow. His face had softened, more than Ianto had ever seen it do in real life. He looked heartbroken, which scared Ianto as much as anything he’d seen today. “Ianto. Did you… are you...” he smiled sadly. “...You too, eh?”

“What? No!” said Ianto, wrenching his hand back from Owen’s, a fear starting within him. Blue brightness flashed behind his eyes, and he pressed his hands over them. It didn’t do much good; the light was still there, icy and unyielding. He dropped his hands, staring at Owen again. “I mean… what are you talking about, Owen…?”

“Ianto...”

But by then, Ianto had already turned on his heel, mind racing, and began to run to the med-bay.

If Owen was a dead man in the living world, and Owen could see him, then there was something else going on here; not just an echo.

And his memories… suddenly, Ianto didn’t feel quite so keen to recover them after all.

He leaned against the railing in the upper gallery of the med-bay, breathing hard, glancing back over his shoulder after a moment to check that Owen hadn’t followed him from the Hub. After a moment he gathered his courage and peered around the corner, back at the sofa. His shoulders drooped with relief as he realised it was empty; perhaps Owen was just an echo after all, a ghost. Perhaps his theory was correct, and he could get out of this… somehow. He didn’t know. But he’d think of something.

He frowned, looking down at the med-bay in front of him.

And saw four figures there, where none had been a moment ago.

There was Tosh, leaning against the base of the examination chair in a pool of blood, smeared all across the tiles and down the stairs. He himself was looking on from the side – and he _remembered_ that, remembered how he’d been too paralysed with dread to come any closer, to make it _real_ – and Gwen, kneeling beside Tosh, stroking her arm. Jack was on her other side, cradling her in his arms, rocking her gently as she gazed up at him.

Jack’s eyes were filled with unshed tears, and Ianto felt his own vision blur as he walked down from the gallery to stand behind Jack, peering at Tosh over his head.

Which was how he witnessed her very last moment of life, the moment when the focus left her eyes.

And as it did, she raised her gaze to meet his, and gave the tiniest smile, before she died in Jack’s arms.

Almost like a greeting, friends meeting again after a long time apart.

Ianto’s eyes widened, stricken. Perhaps before he could have dismissed that as coincidence, but after Owen… even as the vision began to loop from the beginning again, Ianto felt himself spiraling, running his fingers through his hair as he walked in a circle.

On the very point of death, Tosh had been able to see him…

Ianto breathed out, turning around, away from the scene in front of him. He didn’t want to watch his friend die in front of him again. He didn’t want to watch anyone else die. He needed a break from this, he needed to think.

What he needed, he thought, was a good memory. Just for a little while, just to clear his mind of pain and heartbreak and confusion.

And with that he knew where he had to go next; after all, wasn’t it where he’d always gone? And with a quick, regretful look over his shoulder at the scene in the med-bay, he ran up the stairs two at a time, and made for Jack’s office.

The lights were turned to a soft glow, just enough to see the two figures in silhouette against it. He and Jack both had damp hair and clothes, Jack’s coat and Ianto’s jacket spotted with rain and hanging up to dry in the corner. Ianto scrutinised his past self, trying to remember when this was exactly; it looked very recent. His past self had his tie undone and his waistcoat hanging unbuttoned, forehead bumping lazily against Jack’s in a loose embrace.

And Ianto realised when this was; it had been just last month, the night of his birthday, when their date had been interrupted – of course – by a Rift alert in the pouring rain.

“I’m sorry, Ianto” Jack was saying, squeezing him gently around the middle with a sigh. He did sound genuinely contrite, Ianto thought just as he had then. “I said I’d take you out for your birthday...”

“It’s fine” said his past self with a sigh. “It’s not like I care that much about turning twenty-six...”

But Jack was shaking his head. “It’s not every day you turn twenty-six. Only happens once in your life, in fact.”

“Doesn’t mean much, coming from you.” Ianto gave a wry smile. “You must’ve had so many birthdays.”

“Hey, are you calling me old?”

His past self laughed. “Maybe.”

“I haven’t had as many birthdays as you’d think. Stopped celebrating ‘em at some point.” But Jack wasn’t to be dissuaded. “But hey, stop sidetracking me. I’m trying to apologise here.”

Ianto sighed. “Honestly, Jack. I don’t mind.” He drew back, looked Jack in the eye. “It’s what we do isn’t it? It’s just Torchwood.”

“...Yeah” said Jack, though he seemed troubled. He raised his hand to cup Ianto’s face, thumb running over the line of his cheekbone. “Doesn’t change the fact that I promised though.”

“We can do it another time.”

Jack pouted. “Won’t be your birthday, though.”

“I’ll have lots more birthdays.”

Ianto watched as they both tensed a little at that, as they always did in such moments. Jack knew the typical lifespan of a Torchwood agent just as well as he did. But they didn’t talk about it directly; instead they talked about birthdays, apparently.

Jack let his hand slip to the nape of Ianto’s neck. “Yeah. Yeah you will.” He said it as though by the words alone, he could make it true.

His other self smiled a little, leaning forward to kiss Jack softly. And then to kiss him again with a little more heat, pushing Jack back up against the table. “...Make it up to me?”

He heard Jack’s soft chuckle. “Anything you want, birthday boy.”

“It’s past midnight. Not my birthday anymore.”

Jack pouted against his lips. “Aw. And here I was counting on birthday sex. I had such big plans.”

He heard himself laugh softly, drawing Jack in against him. “Well, who knows. Maybe we can still make them work.”

Ianto found himself half smiling, half desperately jealous as he watched his past self kiss Jack deeper, mouth opening easily against his. He remembered this moment and the _extremely_ enjoyable night they’d had from then on, and he remembered falling asleep in Jack’s arms afterwards, dead tired and – somehow – perfectly content. He wanted that again, but really all he wanted now was Jack, _his_ Jack. He wanted this to be over, he wanted–

At that moment, he heard a noise behind him. Tearing his gaze unwillingly from his past self kissing Jack slowly in the lamplight, he turned, but there was nothing there.

There was nothing there, but also, the light had gone out. His eyes widened as he realised that the round window of Jack’s office was shattered, covered over by a blue tarpaulin where the glass had been. There was a hole in the ceiling, one whole wall by the door sheared away, the structure held up with clamps and supports. It was cold and damp, the temperature dropping by at least ten degrees in moments.

Ianto gave an involuntary full-body shiver, staring around. He turned around again and looked back at the desk. But the desk was gone, the remains of the room empty. He frowned. This didn’t seem like another ghostly echo; for a start, there was no-one here but him.

More to the point, it just _felt_ different.

It felt _real_ , Ianto thought with a chill that wasn’t entirely from the cold air.

At that he heard another sound behind him, beside what had once been the door.

He should turn around, he knew, as he heard the sound again. But something in him desperately didn’t want to, wanted to go back to the comfort of the previous scene.

But that was long gone now he knew, chased away by… whatever this was. Reality, perhaps.

And hadn’t he learned the hard way that it was no use denying what you knew to be true? Reality, such as it was, would come for you whether you liked it or not.

And hadn’t he _wanted_ to find out why this was happening, to understand?

And so, Ianto turned, very, very slowly, as desperately afraid of knowing as he was of not knowing.

As he did he breathed out, eyes going wide as he stared.

There was Gwen, standing behind him, perfectly still as though frozen in place. She was staring at him with wide, round eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks unheeded. Her mouth was a little open in a silent gasp as though of pain, but she didn’t seem to be injured.

For a second he stared back at her face; something in him was aware that she was holding something in her hands, clasped in front of her. That same part of him was desperately afraid of glancing down to look at it properly, afraid of the truth that would reveal. And so for a moment more, Ianto just stared at Gwen, their eyes meeting for a long, stretched-out moment in the dim light of Jack’s office. More tears were rolling down Gwen’s face now, her cheeks shining with them; she looked absolutely heartbroken, but where usually she would seek comfort – from a touch, since Gwen, like Jack, needed touch in a way that Ianto had learned to tolerate and even take comfort from himself in their time together – now she didn’t move, simply standing there and staring at him. “Ianto...” she managed, voice a choked whisper. “Oh my god, Ianto, it’s _you._ I...” she let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “I missed you! And, um. I’m so sorry I couldn’t… I wasn’t…” she swallowed, voice hoarse, apparently trying very hard to keep her composure. “ _Ianto_...”

“Gwen–” he began, but it only seemed to make things worse; her face twitched, and she let out a broken sob. And then, she glanced down at the object in her hands.

He couldn’t help following her gaze.

As he did, he noticed two things. The first, was that Gwen was pregnant. Several months, by the look of it. He frowned, as that tugged at something in his mind, something recent, something important. _Standing in the med-bay with Gwen and Jack, and then_ –

But before he could follow through on that thread of thought, his eyes caught on the object she was holding. Silvery grey metal, split in two halves. Activity light blinking as she held the device with both hands, knuckles white with her grip.

Ianto blinked, as he stared. Because this, he _did_ recognise. A quantum transducer, Jack had said; Ianto had archived it himself two years ago, not long after Gwen had first arrived. He remembered the damage it had caused, the way that the others had looked hollow-eyed as Jack handed it to him to take away and store out of sight, under lock and key.

He had read all the case files later too; he knew exactly what that thing did, and how it worked.

Ianto liked to come up with unofficial names for the things he archived, was the thing; it helped pass the time. And as he stared at it, the name he’d given it based on the records came drifting unbidden into his mind.

 _G_ _host machine_.

And if Gwen was using it, then that could only mean–

But at that moment Gwen let out another sob, turning her face away. At the same moment she unclasped her hands, letting the quantum transducer fall from them to the floor.

Ianto saw it fall, but he didn’t see it hit the ground. Because as Gwen let go of the button, the world began to crumple, ripples of otherness passing over the scene in front of him as the world changed, Jack’s office dissolving to nothing all around him. Ianto could feel himself being pulled away with it, but before the world faded around him, with the last of his awareness Ianto saw one last view; the Hub, clearly, from Jack’s office. But the wall was blasted through, the lights gone and water dripping down the walls, all plaster dust and emergency lanterns and hazard tape. Up above, through the collapsed wall Ianto could see a white plastic canopy, opaque but somewhat translucent; it was light outside, clearly, and water dripped through the joins in the canopy into the main space of the Hub. Not that there was much there; the space was gutted, as though from some great impact, though the debris had been partially cleared away, crates and salvaged chunks of the Rift manipulator sitting in neat piles.

Ianto stared at it for a fraction of a second that felt like a hundred years, and _remembered_.

He remembered the explosion of course, and running for his life, saving Jack, and Gwen and Rhys. Hiding in a warehouse listening as the government casually sold away children, his sister’s children and so many others. Thinking that he’d gladly fight against this until his very last breath, if that was what it took.

And he remembered blue light, and red light. Sirens, desperate words tumbling from his mouth with final breaths. And Jack, the warmth of him encircling Ianto as the feeling left his limbs. Cold, merciless blue and flashing red reflected in his eyes and the tears filling them, and nothing, _nothing_ either of them could do to stop it.

He’d got it backwards before, was the thing. Yes, Jack had been clinging on to him like his life depended on it; that part he’d been right about. But it hadn’t been something trying to take Jack from him.

It had been trying to take Ianto from Jack.

And apparently, it had succeeded.

Ianto almost laughed, bitterly, almost a sob; with all the ghosts he’d seen today, how had it taken him this long to realise that he was one of them?

That was his last thought before his awareness crumpled in on itself with the last, dissolving remnants of Jack’s office, as all went black.

And a moment later, he awoke again, in the archive room. He sat up, rubbing his face and peering down at the papers in front of him, before checking his watch.

It was thirteen minutes past one.

He realised he couldn’t remember coming in here.

With a sigh, Ianto got to his feet and headed for the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Myo's prompt "Ianto reacting to the almost ghostly happenings around the hub. Especially the archives as it's filled with stuff that's linked with death". This fic ended up uh, not really being that, and also much longer than anticipated. But it did turn out to be very relevant to this week's Halloween Fest prompt, which was existential horror... or at least hopefully!!! ...Also yes I know, The House of the Dead already did "Ianto realises he actually died in Thames House and isn't real". But I wanted this version of that! ~~Also, if you've read Just This Once and this fic feels like the evil twin of the last arc-and-a-bit of that fic... I'm sorry, that really wasn't intentional, I just have very specific Ianto angst tastes~~


End file.
